


After Tomorrow

by narath



Series: solavellan moments [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22482220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narath/pseuds/narath
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan & Solas, solavellan - Relationship
Series: solavellan moments [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617556
Kudos: 3
Collections: Dragon Age Den fic collection





	After Tomorrow

It’s not like he expected it to be love - he didn’t even understand the concept of love. The mission ahead; the salvation of his people, that was something Solas understood. That was why he left her, soaked in tears and carrying memories heavy enough to break his spine. That is also why he watched her now from the depths of the fade, carefully hiding, as her sleeping breath told tales of their past. There was so much he wished he could undo.

He watches her now too, smiling to himself: she stands in the throne room and grumbles as the Lords and Ladies try to catch a moment with her. She tries to stay in the shadows, moving fast and standing still, but her damn ears always give her away. Maybe the fact that she is the only one armed to the teeth, too.

She gets caught, someone grabs her elbow, and she swiftly excuses herself, or tries, at least.

Solas still stays, watching her. Smirking. Both now, here, and there, then. He leans against the wall.

“Madame!”

“Miss. Yes?” She yanks her arm out of the noble's grip, tries to smile. The noble looks frightened when she does.

She wants to reach for her daggers, maybe stab the rose-cheeked human in front of her, a twitch in her fingers. The lady rambles and flutters to her male companion, a blur of words and exaggerated flailing of her delicate noble hands; the Inquisitor hears none of it. Her eyes are focused on Solas, his lean frame. The way he bites huge chunks of the apple he’s holding. In watching this moment, Solas now sees the way she looks at him, in a time of need, of panic. She mouths a frantic ‘help me’ and bores her eyes into his, steel on steel, silently screaming.

He stops chewing for a second, chuckles. Then he shrugs, and Solas parts himself from his memory form; cursing at the mist of what used to be, cursing his actions as if he could change them. _If only I could’ve been better,_ he thinks, walking away from a memory supposed to be light and cheerful; leaving only with regret and a thousand pounds on his back.

He prefers just watching her sleeping now, her peaceful relaxation; the slightly parted lips, the stray curls, the sheet tangled between her outstretched limbs.

Awake, it was another deal; his hurt equal to the broken bottles, to her spinning in circles.

She shouted from rooftops when Solas wasn’t around anymore; told the world about her responsibility, sharpened swords and asked for advice from Cullen on how to kill. She asked Leliana on how not to be discovered. It worried him, that was certain and that was the truth: but yet she danced, and he couldn’t help but watch her then too; even though she was drunk and stuttering inappropriately, she twirled with a certain grace that reminded him of tall, top-heavy trees during a windy day that looked as if they would snap any second. 

He, the elvhen God, frowned.

Everything here was left for him, by this light that was her, and the guilt that was his, the patterns of her movements erasing the future as he planned it.

He visited her more often now, and in that, he asked to be convinced.

She spoke in her own invented language; long, lingering looks over the edge of a horizon, the way she chewed on a dry piece of bread after she left a rucksack with glistening red apples to some children that wore mud for clothes.

She told him then as her jaws started hurting, that it could stop here and continue as it was, as it were, as nature supposed, as it happened to be.

“Nothing is easy,” she said to no-one and carved his name into the earth. "But this is simple."

He raised a brow at her from a thousand years away.

She laid with her head in his lap although she thought it was merely the nature being kind; and she told the air around her about how the clouds took shapes of her collecting wild strawberries in a woven basket while she wore that yellow dress he really liked, she said that a house they built themselves could be surrounded by big open fields where she would fill her lungs completely with summer air to truly sing, loud and lovely for all that wanted to hear.

He said then, placing a memory of a flower behind her ear, that maybe they could have a small garden, too.

And a fireplace, she added, and maybe a table with seats for more than two.

The clouds rolled by and cast great shadows over the plains below them. He started to fidget with the straps of his armor, Lavellan ripped up grass by its roots.

He told her again, with a broken smile and an ocean of unshed tears in his eyes, that he had to go back and continue what he started.

And then he cried again and finally, as the memory faded; for of course he couldn’t change it - spitting curses and cursing himself - this was not a dream, this was a memory of where they parted.


End file.
